Outlaws
by A Northern Irish man
Summary: Tom Tupper had his ideal life with a desk job. When he stumbles upon a conspiracy involving UK spy agencies he's marked for death he must go on the run with the help of a mysterious guardian committed to protecting him. Tom must adapt to this alien way of life or else he's a dead man. Navigating the murky underworld, can he sacrifice his moral for a chance to clear his name?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, I've written quite a few M. stories but mainly based on the first two incarnations of the team and this is my first based around the latest version. I am not too familiar with the new team but I will try maintain cannon. My style is commonly more toned towards realism and modern day spy fiction**

 **Please enjoy**

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My alarm began to squeal in my ears as my eyes shot open, a new day but absolutely nothing new for me. I flail my hand around my bedside cabinet, eventually hitting the snooze button. I roll over to get back into my comforting fetal position only to be greeted by the sharp white June sunlight creeping through the gap in my blinds. I groaned aloud as I sat myself upright, the universe wasn't going to let my lie in today. I through over the covers and swung my legs over the side. As I began to get up my feet touched the floor however my wood flooring was seemingly ice cold and the sub-zero like temperature made my feet jump back up, another groan. I slowly lowered my feet back down, easing them into it. I forced myself up and stumbled to the mirror. My hair was sticking up in some of the oddest spots. I continued to stumble towards the bathroom to prepare myself for the day ahead and hopefully wake up in the process.

Afterwards I was found myself stood in my kitchen, staring at two almost identical brands of cereal. I instantly stopped contemplating which to have for breakfast and had a mini existential crisis; I had about 6 a month, which all things considered is pretty good taking into account my track record. This was my life, extravagantly normal, absurdly mundane and had been since I joined this seemingly action packed intelligence community all those years ago. I didn't like field operations, avoided them whenever I could, and I never got to be the hero, that was Dan's destined role in life. In the end however I couldn't complain, it was my decision to stay away from the field and instead held up behind a desk and in my own bubble of absolute security but you couldn't have one without the other. No heroics for me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, no guts no glory, who dares wins and so on so forth. A desk job with my own specially designed chair for perfect lumbar support and a customised keyboard for optimum productivity. Bam! I snapped back to reality. I glance at the clock; I had spiralled for a good ten minutes, time to get a move on. I through on a suit and grabbed my ID pass. I despised it, they had spelt my surname with one P and they said it would take 2 weeks to get a new one, which was 3 years ago, after the first 4 months I gave up and decided to live with it. I wasn't keen on confrontation. I grabbed my bag and made my way out. After travelling through peak time London rush hour I finally reached my office. Vauxhall Cross.

I entered through into grand marble reception and showed my pass to the heavily armed security guard. "Tom Tuper: Inter-Departmental Communications Liaison." As far as any average Joe was concerned, I was just a Civil Servant, working in IT. In reality I worked as a cyber-analyst, being the go between for all UK intelligence agencies. I made my way up to the fifth floor to my office. Just a desk, a computer, a chair and an artificial plant in the corner designed to make the workspace more homely, without any of the effort of actually trying to keep it alive. As I settled into my chair and switched on computer there was a knock on the open door, I looked up to see Frank leaning into the room.

"Hi Tom," he began as he followed through into the centre of the room, his limp ever present still after all this time, "Have you got the Pendulum report? The boys at GCHQ are getting antsy about it."

"No worries," I answered as I opened up my desk drawer and pulled out a thick file with the title _Pendulum_ on it, with a large red stamp saying _CONFIDENTIAL_ directly underneath it, classic. I passed the file over, "There's just a few more specs I need to touch up and I'll send you a digital copy."

"Great work Tom, as always." Frank said as he made him way backwards towards the door. "I'll catch you at lunch." Frank then slinked away to his office door the hall. Frank was the only one of the old gang I still saw; I hadn't seen the others in months, years in some cases.

I turned back to my screen and opened up the security specs and send them over to Frank once I put the finishing touches to it. I was nothing if not thorough. I went through my emails and checked the news feeds just to check for any breaking stories. Nothing significant but as they say 'no news is good news.' I preceded stare out the window for the next hour and a half, waiting for some to drop by or call up with another case. I didn't exactly have anyone desperately wanting to chat to me. Just as I began to drift over into a day dream staring into the murky Thames river abyss there was a sudden beeping from my computer that made me jump. I sat back down and pulled up the notification. It was my algorhythms, it has flagged an irregularity.

11 months ago I had started my own side pet project, just something to fill the time during a lull of workload. The algorhythms was to detect any funnelling of money from corporations to suspicious accounts, possible shell corporations linked to terror cells and criminal organisations like KORPS or similar syndicates. After some time and the emergence of another scandal surrounding ministers I decided to expand and monitor possible unethical allocations of public fund. 11 months and absolutely nothing, I had almost completely forgotten about it and just it auto run while I carried on. Now, out of the blue, it had identified dozens of tax money appropriations, small and seemingly insignificant transactions that you wouldn't even take any notice of that were even tucked away so you probably wouldn't even be able to notice. The funds were being giving to a sub-committee that I hadn't even heard of. The committee for Security and Intelligence Networking Systems for International Safekeeping and Transnational Ethical Risks, the vaguer and longer the name, the more inconspicuous it became, the name barely made sense as well. I had to get to the bottom of this. Four hours later and I had gotten so deep into data, having even gotten paper records that were buried in storage, and I had barely learnt anything. I had learnt its purpose was to function as some kind of independent watchdog; it hadn't hired or allocated anyone to the committee since its creation seven years ago, it had not published any reports, its funding was exponentially higher than any other committee to date and every time there was a transfer to its accounts the amount in said accounts had gone up beyond what the public money it was being given was, there was no record in existence that noted where the rest was coming from. This was textbook shady, over dramatic movie grade suspicious. I almost instantly made a call to Frank to check if he had ever heard it, it went straight to voicemail. I left a message asking if he had ever heard of this committee and if he could call me back straight away. I then made a call to Stella Knight, the top of the entire service, I needed to get this out in the open and get it out now. I was directed to her assistant and I had left the same kind of message. There was nothing else I could do now. I was so consumed by this I completely lost track of time. It was 4pm and I hadn't eaten, the hunger fit me instantly with the revelation, a late lunch it was. I locked my computer and put my paper files in my safe and went to the canteen.

After getting a cold leftover sandwich and eating alone I headed back to my office, throughout lunch all I could think about this ghost committee. I got back to my office and was stunned as soon as I entered. The place had been ransacked, drawers torn out and turned upside down with papers everywhere; my computer was completely smashed and had been ripped apart. My safe was also lying on the floor, cracked open with brute force and visibly empty. I was in shock, jaw wide open. I turned around to be met by two heavily armed guards dressed head-to-toe in black directly behind me, blocking the exit.

"Hello Mr Topper," the first guards said, "if you please come with us." I snapped back to reality, they stepped back to let me out and began to escort me down the hall, all I could think about was in the moment was their guns holstered to their sides. As I marched down the hall I came up towards Frank's office, I had to do something. I ran forward and cut into his office. Frank was sat behind his desk.

"Frank, you need to help me." I blurted out, waving my hands around in pure distress. "I found some kind of shadow committee, check your voicemail. I discovered them and now I'm being taken away. What's going on?" The guards rushed in and grabbed me by the back of my collar and yanked me out of there and forced me towards the elevator. I continued to yell for his help as I was pushed into the tiny elevator. As I entered I turned to see Frank standing in the middle or the hall along with multiple curious heads poking out to see what was going on.

"I will figure this out. Don't worry." Frank called out as the doors shut and a bag was suddenly thrown over my head.

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 **Please leave some feedback so I can improve the story and if there are any continuity errors with the series. Thank you**


	2. Chapter 2

**New Chapter. Hope you enjoy, sorry about the wait**

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I was muscled blindly down out of the elevator and bounced around multiple corners until I found myself in an interrogation. The thick and itchy bag was whipped off my head and I found myself sat in a cold and uncomfortable metal chair, handcuffed to a bar on the table in front of me. There was no one else in the room, just a loud closing of a door behind me. The room was dim and damp; the scent of moulding filled the air. To my left there was a mirror, most definitely two-way, someone was watching me, the real question was _who_? I waited for someone to come in and talk to me, maybe two people, good cop, water-boarding cop, I waited and waited. Minutes went by and gradually began to add up and I found my insolation running into the hours. With only my thoughts and four walls it started to really get to me, I began to get nervous and started to sweat profusely, despite the chilling from the mysterious draft that swept through every now and then. In my moments of panic I began to get an itchy nose which was a nervous tick of mine. I had to lean forward to relieve my mild suffering as my hands were somewhat inaccessible having been wrapped in cold steel. This was dragging on, what did they want? There was no way this was coincidence, the day I stumble upon some rogue unit was the same day I'm lifted for questioning. Just as my mind began to tick over into coming to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to make it out of here alive the door opened and a set up footsteps began to creep up behind me, as they came closer the owner made their way into my view, it was a man in a well cut suit and greying hair along his sides.

"Hello Mr. Tupper. You're free to go." The man stated, nothing more, nothing less. He took out a key and unchained me before leaving entirely. I stood and turned only to be met by the same heavily armed guards from early. They put the bag back on my head and led me back through the maze like corridors to the elevators. Once inside and on our way up they removed the bag. We reached the ground floor and they forcefully escorted me out the front doors, the almost tossed me out.

"You're on administrative leave from here on. Don't come back here or we will be authorised to take stronger measures." One of the guards told me before they went back inside, leaving me to wallow in this uncertainty about my future. I lifted myself up and straightened my clothes. The sun was already starting to drop down behind the towering skyscrapers of the city, I must have been in that room for even longer than I imagined. I began to make my way back home, ringing everyone I had on my phone who might be able to remotely help me and what I found chilled me, every number was either busy or disconnected, some I had used less than a week ago. This was bad; I needed to get out of dodge. I headed straight for my apartment to pick up my things and to get the hell out of town. I got through my door and flicked on the lights that stuttered before coming on. I made my way down the hall to the living room when suddenly a thick bat swung around the corner, planting straight onto my face. In my last fluttering moments of consciousness I saw three men in balaclavas standing over me.

I awoke stood on one of my chairs with tightness around my neck, like when you pushed the tie up too far. However I quickly concluded it wasn't a tie; it was rope, digging into my skin. It was dark, the lights were off and only the orange tinge of the street lights streamed through the window but I could still see the men, rummaging through my stuff, except for one. He was standing on a chair opposite me.

"Bottoms up." The man said as he tilted my head back and puckered my lips with his hand. With his other hand he revealed a bottle of Jameson's Whiskey and began to force feed me. The burning taste was overpowering and I couldn't swallow anymore, the dark and bitter liquid began to stream out of the corners of my mouth, the man removed the bottle and I spat out the remaining Jameson's. The man smirked. "It's a real shame." I didn't know what he was on about. "Tom Tupper. Promising public servant haunted by depression and a troubled past commits suicide in home." He said as if he was reading a headline. "Hanging yourself, nasty way to go." As he moved to force the bottle back into my mouth there was a knock on my front door. He looked at the door and looked back at me. He covered mouth as he signalled one of his men to investigate. The second man crept towards the door, lifting the balaclava off his head and concealing a silenced pistol behind him before disappearing out of view.

Out of view I heard his footsteps and suddenly there was a loud crash, the sound of breaking wood as the door opened. Then all I could hear were grunts and the sounds of pummelling flesh, followed by the quick ping of the silenced gun going off and the sight of brain matter splattering across the wall in the corner of my eye. The third man quickly charged towards the source. A mysterious figure whipped around the corner and shot him, stopping him dead in his tracks and ending with him flat on his back. The shadowy figure rounded the corner and began to battle the final man. As they grapple with one another I tried to free myself but the more I struggled the more the chair began to wobble. The Final assassin tackled the shadow and they flew under my breakfast bar, again leaving me to figure out what was going from sound alone. There was crashing and smashing on plates and glasses as they throttled around my kitchen. After a few more moments of fighting there was a loud shout and a dense thud. I began to panic, this was it. I was a dead man. As I began to accept my fate the mysterious figure appeared and cut through the rope and removed it. With the relieve washing over me I sat straight down, trying to breath but the adrenaline coursing through me wasn't doing me any favours. The figure sat down opposite me and rested a hand on my shoulder. I slowly looked to finally meet my rescuer. It was still dark but I could still make a majority of them out. It was a man, he a had shaggy blonde hair and barely looked any older than I did but looked like he had a couple facial scars, though in this lighting I couldn't quite tell.

"Sorry man, I know you almost died back there and I'd hate to rush you but we really need to go." He told me.

"Who are you?" I croaked. He sighed

"Why do people insist on asking questions when we urgently have to leave?" He lifted me up, grabbed two balaclavas off the bodies and handed one to me. "Put this on and keep quiet." I complied; I couldn't exactly refuse the orders of a guy who clearly knew more than I did and was seemingly trying to save me. We made our way out of the apartment, over the bodies and over the door that had been completely taken off its hinges. We continued slowly down the building, my guardian keeping me against the wall whenever we had to turn a corner. We made it to the ground floor and went out through the back entrance. Parked just out back was a dingy old Rover 25. He opened the back door and hurried me back, telling me to lying flat across the backseat. He hoped in the front and started the engine, just before driving off he turned around to look at me.

"Tom Tupper, you are now officially a dead man. Welcome to the club."

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 **Feel free to give me some feedback on what you think so far. Tell me what your theories are and what you think might happen next and who knows I might just incorporate it into the story because I am far too lazy to come up with my own plotlines**


	3. Chapter 3

My eyes clamped open, my cheek squished up as my head was buried into the itchy grey fabric of the backseat. I could feel the crusted drool along the side of my mouth. I lifted myself up to be met by the view of rising sunlight and rolling green fields, I must have clocked out straight after this man saved me, the adrenaline must of left me as quickly as it had flooded me. I wiped away the residue from my mouth as I straightened myself out. I looked as my saviour, the man with no name, He was looking dead ahead. I took this time to fully evaluate him. Who was he? Why was he doing this for me? How was it that he was able to come to my aid in a nick of time? How did he know exactly who to save? Did someone send him? Was he even here to rescue me? I had spent no time questioning this man's motives but I guess in my previous state of mind, full of gratefulness and relieve of not being dead, I was not going to be in the habit of second guessing what seemed like a miracle at the time.

"I know what you're thinking. No, I'm not going to kill me." He said staring me out in the rear-view. Now in the cold light of day I could really make him out. His eyes were a dark oak brown and had a real intensity about them, the kind of look they talked about soldiers having in war films. His hair wasn't as blonde as I previously thought, it was certainly blonde but the closer you got to the roots the hair got darker and started to go brown. "And yes, I know if someone was going to kill you they'd likely tell you that they weren't. They said you'd be pretty analytical." I drew breath about to interject. "I'll explain everything soon." I slumped back in my chair and took in my surroundings; I hadn't been somewhere that wasn't populated with towering concrete giants in a very long time.

"Where are we?" I croaked.

"Somewhere between St Harmon and Pant-y-dwr." He responded checking his own surroundings.

"Pant-y-dwr? Wait, we're in Wales?" I sat forward in confusion. "Have you been driving continuously? Aren't you tired?"

"Nah." He answered casually, "We're here." He turned left into another country road and carried on; we were most definitely in the middle of nowhere. For a guy who was assuring me I wasn't about to die, his actions were really giving off another vibe. After a couple more minutes of silent driving we pulled into a small country house by the side of the road, almost a cottage it was so small. We got out and he led me inside. The place was dim, the beige curtains drawn but with the sun beating on them and seeping through they gave the main room a brown tint. The place was mainly filled with books, no television, just a sofa and a mountain of books. He led me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table in the centre of the room. He pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey, a large one, the industrial type, the kind bars had. He poured a glass for the both of us but after my uncomfortable encounter with the substance shortly beforehand I couldn't stomach any, along with the fact that the sun had barely gotten up itself, a fact that didn't seem to bother him that much as he began to savour his glass. A few more minutes of silent reflection passed.

"Ok, I've got to ask. Who are you?" I broke the silence.

"Question on everyone's tongue," He chuckled to himself. "That's not important."

"Can you at least give me a name to call you?" He asked, he laughed again. "I feel I'm like hanging around a Clint Eastwood character."

"What would you like to call me?"

"Could you just give me a straight answer please?"

"Look Tom, names are like smoke in this business. Clear as day in a moment and gone with the simple swipe of a hand. You can call me whatever you like. Tony or Nick, Bennie, Fred, Striker, Rogue, Jack. Hell, call me Oscar if you want."

"How about," I pondered for a moment, "Russell." He nodded.

"Let's go with Russ. Russell makes me sound like an English Literature Lecturer." He laughed and took a deep gulp of his drink. I joined in with the laughter. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up as he leaned back in his chair. "So do you want a new name or shall we stick with _Tom_?"

"Tom is fine."

"You're a really soft spoken kind of guy. Highly educated I'm figuring. Recruited through the M. programme I presume." I nodded in conformation, "Yep, the amount of people they got hooked on this idea of Queen and Country at such a young age. You don't look like the fighting type, were you the tech guy?" I nodded again, "Every unit had the same kind of structure, The Master of Disguise, the Computer Genius and the Fighter."

"And what were you?"

"I was the kind of didn't believe that creating what was basically the equivalent of child soldiers was in the best interest of the country." I didn't know how to respond and my throat clogged out of shear awkwardness; it forced me to clear my throat heavily to tense the tension.

"Alright, you said you would clear everything up once we were home free," I began to say, "and from the looks of things we're pretty secure. What the hell is going on?"

"To put it plainly, you kicked the hornets' nest and now the hornets are making it their business to sting you until you're not breathing, and then some. Long answer, you picked up on the committee and you tried to draw attention to them, something they didn't like and so they decided to dispose of you."

"Yes, I've gathered that, where do you come into all this?"

"I am yet another nest kicker such as yourself. The Committee tried to have me killed when I seemed to get too close for comfort, they failed, I left the service and I've been a drifter ever since. Once you got picked up some people made calls to people who made calls to other people to get through to me. I think you're buddy Frank was the one who tried to reach out. They said you weren't the type to be able to get out of this sort of jam on your own and you needed help. Folks called in a few favours and asked me to look out for you. You're lucky I was in London when the call came through, I was even on my way out of the country, if they called an hour later I would have been half way to France. Anyway, here we are."

"What exactly is this committee?"

"The Committee, SINSISTER, they're the bogey man of the intelligence community. All the scary stories parents tell their kids about spies is common practice for them. They're a UK/US joint operation dedicated to the greater good. They believe national security shouldn't be in the hands of Joe public or an elected government for the state. They have this antiquated concept of that they must do to keep us safe, like holding a gun to our heads to make sure we won't hurt ourselves, and they feel that anything is justifiable to ensure they reach their goals. Spying on and blackmailing government officials to ensure funding is not disrupted and no enquiries are opened into their functions or works. Killing people they deem as threats and killing the innocent to justify further action. They would kill the heads of state if they didn't agree with their foreign policies."

"Jeez," I sat stunned; "Why SINSISTER?" was all I could muster, "Why not SINISTER as a name?"

"SKUL, KORPS, SINISTER. They're evil but not stupid. Having a name like Sinister they may as well have a tattoo saying 'we have a lair inside a volcano' on their foreheads."

"Point taken. So what do we do now?" I concluded.

"Seeing as you're not use to the field and you're now wanted dead by the most dangerous rogue government body in recent history it's probably best you stick with me. Be a Freelancer like me."

"What do you mean _Freelancer_?"

"Well." He leaned forward, "How do you feel about breaking international laws?"

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 **This was a more dialogue driven chapter so apologies for the lack of action. Don't forget to give me some feedback or impressions so far**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry about the wait, bit of a longer chapter, enjoy**

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 **3 weeks later…**

The Angolan sun was unbearable, beating down on me; creating a river on sweat to run down my back and making my new cream short sleeve shirt cling to my body. I had been sat by the side of an abandoned airstrip for over 2 hours, the forestry practically surrounded us. I was sat upon an empty crate, hunkered over a bulky laptop; I had been working on this code for almost a week straight. In this technologically dependant 21st century, cars had become heavily digitised, many cars used electronic locks instead of traditional keys now and Russ wanted me to exploit it. The code was designed to crack electronic encryptions that locked cars which would allow us to steal any car without any alarms going off. I had developed one for door locks years ago however back then I had various pieces of equipment at my fingertips, now all I had was a military grade laptop that was more designed to withstand flying shrapnel than for creating a computer program to hack hundreds of different signals from dozens of companies across the globe. Needless to say, it was a challenge but if there was one thing I excelled in, it was computers. Russ wondered out from the run down hangar that was half falling apart onto the boiling black tarmac runway. He was dressed in a red Hawaiian shirt with a double horizontal shoulder holster, combat trousers with boots to match and a pair of sunglasses. Russ wasn't blonde anymore, a couple of days after I first met him his hair colour changed, his hair was now brown, though I couldn't figure out if it was the blonde had been a dye and he had just washed it out or if he had dyed his hair brown. I didn't ask because I didn't want a vague answer. Over these past few weeks we had started to really get along, he helped me adjust to this new way of life, I had barely been outside of the UK in my entire life and within three weeks I had been dragged across eastern Europe and had visited six different African states, only staying in one location for a couple days at a time. On all jobs we were doing Russ kept me on the side-lines, made sure I was safe and even made sure we had some biscuits for when I started to get panicky. Though no matter how much banter we had or rapport we built he never told me anything about himself, I grasped he was ex-MI9 and was previously in the M.I. programme, apart from that I had no clue to his background, The only name I had for him was Russ and I had come up with that. As I contemplated my new life Russ began to talk with someone over a radio and started to make his way over to me.

"Alright, they're on their way. Approximately 10 minutes." He told me gesturing towards the sky.

"What kind of job is this anyway?"

"Standard pickup, they land and drop of the cargo in the hanger and maybe pick up some too."

"So pretty much the same kind of gig we've been doing since we got to this continent?"

"Pretty much," He laughed, "Though one more thing, we'll be among that new cargo."

"Do we have to?" I groaned. Smuggling planes were notoriously shoddy. Years of dodging bullets (not always successful) took their toll on these planes and the rattling of bolts when on the inside never sat well with me. A few minutes later they arrive, the Titanic Antonov cargo plane came barrelling down and glided onto the tarmac. The ex-soviet Behemoth was rusted with a new coat of grey paint, one of many resprays these planes would have gotten since the fall of the wall to get rid of their original military look. They were successful in making them not look military grade but they certainly didn't look commercial. The plane came to a holt and parked up. As the bay door began to lower Russ began to make his way over to them with me following slightly behind, tucking my laptop by my side. The doors opened fully and a figure came strolling down, it was Mikhail.

"Fellas," Mikhail shouted joyfully, his thick Russian accent echoing through the quiet airstrip as he stretched out his arms and approached for the hug. He embraced Russ tightly, "Good to see you Paxson," _Paxson_ was the name Mikhail knew him by, he knew that wasn't his real name but it was how he knew him. Russ had as previously asked him to use the name Russ, for my sake so I wouldn't get confused but Mikhail had just laughed and said he'd always be Paxson to him. As he squeezed Russ he spotted me trailing slightly behind and instantly released Russ and charged towards me. "Tommy." He grinned, putting me in a bear hug. I tried to return the hug but I could only get one arm around as the other was gripping onto the chunky laptop. I had only met Mikhail on a few occasions on similar jobs but he was certainly the friendly type. From what I had gathered on our shorts periods of time together Mikhail was ex-Soviet Air Force, having been a pilot during the Cold War and having flown this plane during the Soviet war in Afghanistan. When the Cold War ended in '91 Mikhail and his crewmates decided to steal a couple things while everyone was panicking as the USSR started to crumble, this superplane being one of them. Now Mikhail flew around the world, mainly to spots that weren't at the top of tourist destinations, trafficking various cargo and from the looks of things, loving the private sector. A faded old Pink Floyd t-shirt, Khaki cargo shorts and flip-flops, if you saw him out on the street you'd think he was a middle-aged man enjoying early retirement.

The other crew members emerged from the plane and began loading up crates from the run down hangar. Russ took Mikhail aside to talk in private for a few minutes while I stood awkwardly under the scorching sun. Russ produced a small black pouch and handed it to Mikhail who poured the contents into his hand for inspection. From where I was standing I couldn't quite tell what it was but I presumed it was diamonds, they were payment on our last job and they were practically currency on this continent. Russ called me over.

"Good to go. We load up in ten minutes and we should be in Cairo in a couple hours."

"Egypt?" I was confused, "Why are we going there?"

"There's a man there who owes us a few answers." He responded ambiguously. I couldn't be bothered prying some more information out of him and instead just followed him to the hangar. We grabbed our bags from the tiny office inside and packed away my laptop.

We got on the plane and it was as nightmarish as I remembered. The plane hold was dark and concerning, there weren't any chairs with high quality straps to keep you in, just some benches and holiday deckchairs lining the sides that weren't even bolted in. I could see the crates were fastened down securely and weren't going anywhere, apparently cargo safety trumped passenger safety. As we ventured further in I saw Victor, Mikhail's right hand, another ex-soviet air force man. He was hunkered down on his knees, loading some smaller boxes into a secret compartment under the floor. He placed the panel back over, got up and turned to look at us. He was stood in some filthy jeans and a white t-shirt, both covered in oil stains, along with a red bandana around his neck and a pair of goggles pushed up his head, making the front of his hair stick up. He simply waved at us, his palms black from the oil and without saying anything disappeared off to another area of the plane. We were soon packed up and were lining up for take-off, I hated this part. As the plane began to ascend the place began to rattle, I was sat on the bench, bracing myself as it began to slide across the floor. Soon we were leveling out and I pushed the chair back up against the wall. I took some deep breathes, being happy not to be dead and jokingly wondering what the in-flight movie would be and if they had any kosher meals.

 **10 hours later**

We were sat outside a small café in downtown Cairo, Russ was sipping a coffee while I was guzzling down water, the Egypt weather wasn't any better for me. We had barely just landed and we were back to work, what the work was I was still in the dark about. When we arrived and Russ led me to a tiny apartment down a side alley, the place was blank, looked like no one had lived there period. We left our things there and almost straight after Russ dragged me to this café that was on the other side of town with giving a reason and now here we were. Russ was casually enjoying his drink but I could tell it was watching the crowd, keeping a look out for someone.

"So who are we looking for?" I inquired.

"An agent by the name of Ammon Chisisi." He replied.

"Agent? Egyptian intelligence?"

"No, no," He took a large gulp of his drink, "Working for the US."

"We're going to kill an American spy?" I panicked.

"What?" He gave me a puzzled look, "No, we're just going to ask him some questions." He explained, "He's part of SINSISTER."

"So we're finally going to take them down and clear my name?" my eyes lit up. Russ burst out into laughter and began to reel it back in so to not bring attention.

"Firstly, it's only been a few weeks. Secondly, these guys can't be taken down. Ever heard of the mythical beast Hydra?"

Before I could give a detailed explanation of the Hydra's history and the mythology surrounding it Russ gulped the rest of his drink, whacked me to stop me talking and subtly pointed to the other side of the market. I look over and instantly spotted the man sticking out. Ammon was dressed in a white suit, likely Egyptian silk, with a blue shirt and wicker shoes. As Ammon left the marketplace and began to walk further into the narrow streets of downtown Cairo we casually vacated the café and started to tail him. We weaved through the crowds and kept a safe distance from him. We followed from street to street. The streets differed in size, some wide, some narrow but the one thing they all had in common were the wires dangling above us, TV cables and washing lines that connected the building, there were so many they almost eclipsed the sun. Ammon seemed to be just minding his own business, checking out market stalls and browsing in shops. We shadowed Ammon for over ten minutes without making any kind of move.

"This is so boring." Russ sighed. "I've got an idea." I didn't like the sound of that, Russ grabbed me and rushed us both forward, closing in on our target. "Hey Ammon!" He called out while waving his hand in the air. Ammon froze and spun around to see us moving up on him. He immediately began to flee and Russ turned to grin at me, "I love a good chase." And with that Russ was sprinting ahead after Ammon.

And here we were, in an epic chase through the streets of Cairo. Ammon in the front, Russ merely feet behind and me bring up the rear with what felt like miles behind. It was moments like these where I truly missed my old life, when I had an orthopaedic chair custom made, a healthy diet and a subscription to the Economist. A slow life. A boring life. My life. Now I was getting some long overdue cardio, bobbing and weaving through the busy crowds, sometimes having to barrel through them all together. After a while I almost started to get excited, the adrenaline began pumping, I felt nostalgic of the days with Dan and Aneisha. I was getting so lost in the past that I hadn't even noticed the cart in front of me before I was already tumbling over it and flopping straight onto my back. I sprang back up, the chase was a foot. I kept going through the narrow street and soon saw Russ holding a door open and waving me over. I caught up with him and followed him up through the door into the building where we began to climbing the stairs, floor after floor. We made our way to the top and burst through the fire door. As we emerged we spotted Ammon, he was walking over across a plank that connected the two buildings, hovering above the streets below. He made it to the over end and as he dismounted he kicked the plank, causing it to drop to the streets. He glared at us for a moment before disappearing into the building. We rushed in his direction but stopped at the edge. Looking down we saw a wide open street, the gap was far too big to jump. We turned and walking away, he slipped through our grasp. As we walking I began to formulate a new plan, if we hurried we could make it downstairs and try cutting him off in the alleyway. As I turned to propose this new strategy to Russ I saw he wasn't next to me, wallowing in the same feeling of failure I was. He was facing the other direction, at the building across the way. He was hunkered down in an athlete's sprinting position. I did not like the look of this. Without a word he began charging forward. I chased after him but he was far too fast. He dived off as I abruptly stopped at the ledge; all I could do now was to watch him. Russ flew through the air and grabbed hold of a clothesline which snapped and swung him across to the building like he was Tarzan on a vine. He swung over and smashed through a blue stained window a few floors down. I made one last glance down at the street and shook my head, there was no way I was copying him. I made way back down via the stairs and made my way across to the alley around the side of the building. I waited around for a few minutes when suddenly a side door swung open and out came Ammon, for a split second I panicked thinking I was going to have to fight him but that feel was quickly squashed when I saw Russ directly behind him, he had Ammon is cuffs and from the bruises on Ammon's face and how his suit was ruffled I guessed it might of taken a bit of work. Russ smiled at me as he tossed our target over to the ground, Ammon must have been half unconscious because he hit the ground hard and stayed there. Russ left for a few minutes to grab a car and soon returned with a rusted taxi, we through him into the boot and drove straight to our apartment. The area was clear so we had no trouble carrying this limp handcuffed hostage to our place. Once we got there Russ took him and brought him into the bathroom.

"Tom, I'm going to ask our friend here a couple questions and it might get a bit," Russ paused, "messy. So it's probably best you wait out here. Work on the code."

"If you say so." I replied grabbing my bag with the laptop. I sat down and opened up the laptop as Russ disappeared into the bathroom. Despite being out from the sun the place was still humid, the fan above my head didn't make much difference, its spinning just left a dull repetitive whooshing that filled the silence in the room. A few minutes later the screaming started. It sent an unhealthy shiver down my spine so I put on some headphones and tried to not think about it, bury myself in the work and soon I was. It was probably an hour later when I cracked the code. I got it; we could now access almost any car the whole world over. I hopped up to tell Russ but before I could knock on the bathroom door it burst open. "I got the program working." I blurted out in surprise. I peered over Russ' shoulder, I saw Ammon and I saw red, lots of it. "You said we weren't going to kill him."

"I said we'd ask him a few questions and we did. I never specified what we'd do after we got the answers." He smirked, "Anyway, how's your French?"

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed, I know it hasn't been too action orientated but this is deliberate choice on my part as Tom is not an inherently action based character and the story is from his perspective. I shall oblige and have some of the other characters appear just don't expect them too soon, I don't want to shoehorn then into the story. Don't forget to review and tell me how bad I am at writing action sequences.**


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